


Wasted Feelings

by Amalveor



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s02e08 Til Death, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:01:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25221322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amalveor/pseuds/Amalveor
Summary: In the aftermath of their encounter with the Drake's, the couple who almost let their love turn to mutual murder, Reese finds himself wallowing in his own misery. Finch isn't dealing with it much better.
Relationships: Harold Finch/John Reese
Comments: 5
Kudos: 57





	Wasted Feelings

The worst thing about human behavior was the desperate desire that struck, especially during suffering or misery, to do exactly the thing that was worst for you, that would cause the most damage, despite knowing what the effect would be. John Reese considered himself to be an intelligent man but he had fallen into that trap more than once in his life. Disappointed to find that his "death" was far worse than actually being six foot under, he'd lost himself on the streets and in the bottom of whiskey bottles.

And now, although he knew the reason for the emptiness he was feeling, the reason he was sitting there in the half dark and thinking about it, he did nothing to stop it. Or perhaps he didn't want to do anything to stop it. Dealing with the Drake's had thrown him, got him thinking about things he'd been avoiding, and not hearing from Finch had given him all the more time to wallow. Going to the library would have helped; some company, some of what now passed for familiarity, but he hadn't allowed himself to go. Of course he hadn't. And Finch hadn't called, which made him feel all the worse. Ridiculous.

Ridiculous and enough. He needed to go and find Finch.

The library was dark when he arrived. A single computer monitor threw a pale blue glow across the book shelves and Reese half expected Finch to be asleep with his head on the desk. He wasn't. The photo was lying on the desk, the photo that Reese hadn't needed to look at to know what it showed, who it showed. Finch knew how to hide what he was thinking but Reese had heard him threaten to leave the Drakes to their own devices, had known then that seeing them together was affecting him. And Reese knew what he was thinking, because he was thinking it too. If he'd had the chance to marry Jessica, he would never had taken her for granted, never let their marriage crumble to hatred. Finch felt the same way about Grace. And no matter how naive the thoughts were, because who really knew how things could play out, situations and emotions turn, it must be all the worse for Finch because Grace was alive and he could have been with her.

He reached to turn off the screen. The computer whirred on into the night of course, but the monitors were usually shut off when Finch left. It wasn't like him to have left one on.

There was a map showing on the screen, he realised, a single red dot highlighted. No name or number to indicate who it was but Reese didn't need told. He knew the address.

There weren't any lights on at the front of the house and after a quick sweep of the surrounding area, there was no sign of Finch. The small gate at the front was unlocked, though, and ajar. Something was wrong. Other men might have thought twice about trying the front door, or at least thought twice about stepping inside when they found it unlocked. Reese didn't.

Patting his jacket, he felt for his detective's badge as he made his way down the hall. A shard of light slid from under a doorway down the long bare wood floor and he strained to hear any sounds within. There were none. Which meant something was certainly wrong.

"Miss Hendricks?"

Sudden scrabbling answered him, something moving frantically inside the door and he drew his gun, aiming low inside the frame, at the gap that would appear when it opened. He pushed the handle, moved to the side, and he nudged the door.

"Bear?"

The dog barrelled through as Reese opened the door, planting himself at his master's feet and wagging his tail happily.

He lowered his gun, stepped into the room and sighed. "Why are you here, Finch?"

He was sat at the kitchen table, collar unbuttoned, tie loose around his neck, and he didn't look surprised to see Reese. But he did look hurt and tired, like all energy had been drained from him. The photo of Harold and Grace flitted through Reese’s mind and he recognised the emotion, knew how he was feeling.

"I know she can't see me,” Finch said. "I just needed to... be a little closer somehow." His voice slowed on the word 'closer' as if it were something to be handled carefully lest it break with the saying of it. "Would you like a drink, Mr Reese? I've never been fond of gin but the taste reminds me very strongly of her and I..."

He broke off and Bear gave a little whine beside Reese as if imploring him to do something.

"Where is she?"

"A very prominent figure in the art world has commissioned a piece. I hadn't anything to do with arranging it.” His face showed pride but his voice carried only sadness. "She's taken a trip to LA, to meet him. Her flight doesn't get back until tomorrow. She won't know we were here. I thought, if I was very careful I could just… It would feel like being here. Really being here."

Reese didn’t need the explanation, he already understood. Finch’s eyes were glassy and he knew that look of intoxication mixed with pain because he had worn it himself for months, had felt the way Harold was feeling.

"Sit, Mr Reese.” Finch said. And there was a forcefulness, an unspoken 'or leave' implied by the tone.

The table was large and Reese's instinct was to sit opposite but Finch's hand had gestured next to him at the request and the need for closeness was something else Reese understood well enough. He took the seat beside him, bringing a large hand to rest on the other man's small shoulder. Comfortingly, he hoped, although he’d never been particularly good at comforting.

"Do you want to talk about it?" The question was a little awkward, just like the hand he wasn't sure what to do with. He gave Finch a pat and then dropped it away.

There was a long pause in which Finch stared down at the glass he was cradling in his hands, and John wondered if he'd asked the wrong thing. They weren't exactly big on communication for people who spent most days in one unending phone call.

"I should have left her alone," Finch said finally. He didn't turn to look at John, whether because he couldn't or didn't want to, Reese wasn't sure. "The machine kept pointing her out, not as a number but as a fascination, as if it couldn't work her out. Everyone has the potential to be a number, Mr Reese. Some threat, some trouble, something. But her... There was no one who wanted to hurt her, not the smallest chance of danger and I had to know why, I had to see why. And then it was different. I spoiled it, for my own happiness, for something I couldn't even..."

"You made her happy too, Finch."

"Perhaps," he said. "And then I made her so unhappy. I watched her, saw her face when she heard the news. She was so happy and then for months she was... Broken. I _broke_ her." The words caught in his throat and for a moment John thought he might begin to cry. He didn't. But the expression in his wide sad eyes, rimmed with the red of exhaustion and alcohol was worse than tears. "What could I have possibly given her that was worth all that pain?"

"I don't know, Finch. You've given me an apartment and nice clothes and you're not even trying to sleep with me.” It was almost certainly the wrong thing to say; the sort of heartless attempt at humour he could rely on himself to supply when someone needed his sympathy. But then Finch smiled, just slightly before he could apologise.

"You sound very sure of that, Mr Reese.” His tone was teasing, but the haunted look in his eyes was still there, that look that never really left him: a mix of emptiness, knowledge and fear.

He smiled back. "If you're so drunk you're flirting with me, it's time to call it a night, Harold."

Finch picked up his glass and slowly drained the clear liquid within. Holding the empty vessel in the air, as if examining a silent toast in progress, he sighed. "Perhaps," he said, "you might be right.”

With another sigh, he seemed to sink into himself, shoulders slumping and Reese stood, feeling cowardly as he did so. He should stay with Finch, try to make him feel better somehow. Only he had no idea how he would go about doing it.

Finch swayed a little as he pulled himself out of the chair and Reese wanted to offer him a hand, but didn't think Finch's pride, no matter how intoxicated, would appreciate it.

"I just need to..." He hadn't quite finished gesturing around the room before Reese was pushing in the chairs, placing the glass amongst a collection of other unwashed items in the sink, resetting the scene to a time before Finch's arrival.

Bear followed him as he moved and the dog at least, seemed happy. Reese reached down to pat him, scratching behind his ears while Harold just stood there, staring at them as if the sight physically hurt him. He looked small, shrunken into himself, and he seemed open and vulnerable in a way that made John feel a desperate need to protect him.

"Harold..." he said, not sure where to go from there.

And then Finch cut in, his voice unexpectedly clear and sharp. "Throughout my life," he said, "I have endeavoured to have the fewest possible number of personal relationships. And yet I find that, despite my best efforts, they have ended in pain. That is, when they have not ended in death." There was a pause, and whether it was designed for Reese to speak in or not, he could all but see Harold's mind working behind his eyes, and so he waited.

"A man may dwell upon a thought so long that it may take him prisoner," Finch said finally, and frowned. "It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live," he tried instead and gave a sharp derisive huff of breath. "Somewhere between those quotations is an excellent one that says, quite succinctly, everything I'd like to. I usually find that if there is something to be said it already has been, somewhere in literature. Have you read Harry Potter, Mr Reese?"

Reese couldn't help the near silent breath of laughter that escaped him; the question came so absurdly out of nowhere. "Have _you?_ "

"My tastes in literature are extremely varied. Naturally, I've read them.”

John moved forward, to do what he wasn't sure. He brought his hand up to hover near Harold's arm, in case he needed supported but he stayed steady, and he could hear the shake in the long exhale he let out.

"I'm sorry," Harold said. "I'd like you to hear this because I can't guarantee I would say it again.” He waited, meeting John's eyes directly, as if looking to be sure that he was heard. "I have grown to care for you," Harold said, "far more than I ever thought I would when I sought you out. And while I know that you- no, that’s not important. What I want to say is that... I do not want this to end in pain, or sadness, or death. I cannot lose you like that. I don't want to lose you."

John squeezed his eyes shut for a long second. What did he say to that? He knew Harold cared about him, but of course he did, he cared about the numbers, about getting the job done. Of course he also cared for the tools he needed to do the job. And yet, if he lingered on the thought, he couldn’t truthfully deny that Harold seemed to care for him individually, separately, as a person. It warmed him to know, but it frightened him just as much.

“One of the first things you said to me-“ he started, but Harold took over.

“Sooner or later we will both wind up dead? I believed that. I still believe that. The difference is that I no longer want it."

“That’s not something you ever wanted, Harold.” John said, unsure why he felt so insistent but knowing that he did.

“I wouldn’t be so certain of that. What did you want when we first met?"

“Peace and quiet,” he answered, truthfully. “I guess I wasn’t fussy about how I got it.”

Truth be told, he had been psyching himself up for it for a while, killing himself. All the happiness that had ever been in his life had been reduced to, at worst, unbearable pain and at best, inconvenience, and he didn’t want to live that way anymore. There were other ways out, of course, but he hadn’t had the energy to bother. “Okay, maybe I did want to die, or thought I did. But you saved me from that, Harold. You gave me a purpose…”

At his feet, Bear sat down with a small whine as if he too could feel the weight that seemed to be pressing down on Reese’s shoulders from the air. Sharing was meant to feel freeing, to feel good, that’s what therapists would have had him believe at least. This felt like something else. But Harold was looking expectant, as if he needed to hear more, and John would give him anything he needed, anything at all.

“You saved me.” He said. “You’re right, I would have done it if you hadn’t been there, if you hadn’t found me. Earlier, with those numbers… I felt worse tonight than I have in a long time. Seeing how they let all that go to waste, how they let it all go wrong."

"We showed them a better way. If they survive the court case they might even-"

"And do they deserve it? Do they really deserve it? If it wasn't for us-" And this was entirely the wrong thing to be saying, entirely different to what Harold needed to hear. "It doesn't matter. What's important is that I don't want to die and it's not just because of the job. I care about you too, Harold. This, our life, I don’t want to die when I’ve got this.”

He wasn’t great at finding the words, but he thought it was obvious enough. He’d thanked Harold enough. And yet Harold reacted as if he’d said something profoundly affecting, a watery smile spreading across his face.

“Are we letting this go to waste?” There was a waver to his voice that made him sound close to tears and John couldn’t follow the logic to figure out what he was talking about.

“What do you-?”

“Would you forgive me for doing something which might be profoundly stupid?"

“Yes.” He didn’t understand, but Finch had seen him at his worst and forgiven him for it. He couldn’t think of any situation where he wouldn't do the same for him.

One of Harold’s hands came up to John’s chest, and John gripped his shoulders instinctively, encircling him in case he needed help to stand, but he seemed stable enough. And then, ever so slowly, he brought the other hand to cup around the back of John’s neck.

It felt nice. Harold’s hands were cool and soft and John’s body reacted to the subtle shift in Harold’s posture, and the intent in his eyes before he had a chance to think it through. Because this was Harold, and the things he did for him were always partly instinctive now, a consequence of all the many hours spent together.

His brain joined in at the same moment Harold kissed him, which was the same moment he kissed him back. There was a soft noise of surprise between their mouths that could have belonged to either of them, and the kiss was soft and intimate, like something they'd done a hundred times before. Harold tasted like gin but he smelled like the library, and if John had known that he could have this, he would have wanted it just as badly as he wanted any connection to Harold.

"Thought you were going to do something stupid," he teased as they pulled apart.

Harold blinked slowly at him. "I was rather expecting a different reaction."

"Not the first time you've underestimated me, Finch."

"I've never-" he started, and then laughed at John's best expression of disbelief.

"Come on," he said, "Let's get you out of here. We've got some things to talk about when you're sober."

"I have a place not far from here. Will you walk with me?"

If there was somewhere in the city that Finch didn't have a place nearby, Reese hadn't found it yet. When they stepped out onto the street, Harold pressed into John's side and he let his arm wrap across Harold's shoulders, waiting for an awkwardness to set in and feeling cautiously optimistic when it didn't. He wasn't entirely sure what was going on here, or what the sober Harold of tomorrow would feel about it, but he knew two things: that he wanted whatever Harold would give him, and that he would not let it go to waste.


End file.
